Poor Fools, How They Laugh
by lalalyds2
Summary: I apologize. This isn't a Sunday In The Park With George fiction, it is an A Little Night Music fiction. There wasn't a category for ALNM, and I don't know how to make one. Again, I apologize. Once I figure out how to make a category, I will move this fic. If you read this, thank you. If you don't, thank you for allowing this to be here.
1. Poor Fools, How They Laugh

_Hey all, just wanted to put this out there. I do not own A Little Night Music. I am not, nor will I ever be Stephen Sondheim. If I was, that'd be awesome because Bernadette Peters would be my best friend and that is just too fantastical to be true. So I write about this instead. This was written for my darling friend, and because there aren't any ALNM fics on this site but there should be._

 _Enjoy._

* * *

She's a fool.

He murmurs thanks into the creamy flesh of her shoulder, gently tucking the rumpled sheets back around her hips, the white of her uncovered calves gleaming in the candlelight.

"Will you not stay?" She asks, face turned up, immediately noticing how his back tenses before he turns around with a cheery smile.

She could choke on all the saccharine.

"I promised Anne a game."

She sighs, she knew better than to ask, yet she couldn't resist. Her face never shadows as she smirks, lips a bitter twist.

"I hadn't realized she'd finally started _playing_ with you."

" _Checkers_ , Desiree."

"Well it certainly suits her...age of mind, no? Maybe this time you'll finally be _kinged_."

She wonders if she's stepped over that pesky line between humor and distasteful spite; his face is a frozen stone.

Finally, he smiles; a hand reaching to tug a fiery curl lightly.

"Here's to hoping."

He leans down for his shoes, she untangles herself from white. A teasing smile adorns her face as she presses herself against his back, arms curling around him to button his less-than-crisp shirt.

First, his pristine collar. Second, his sharply-inhaling chest. She grins with unabashed glee. Right now, he could only be described as putty.

Her hands move tortuously slow down the rest of his shirt. They linger at the very last button, trailing lower and lower-

"Well, I must be going. Again, I cannot thank you enough, Desiree."

"Anything for an old friend," she purrs.

He does not look at her as he stands from the bed.

"Oh, would you be a dear and hand me the telephone? I have a certain count I must call before the sun sets."

He grabs it from the dresser, finally bringing his eyes to the kneeling figure in bed.

She smiles victoriously as his Adam's apple bobs.

It grows at his audible gulp.

With considerable effort, he tears his gaze from her, handing her the phone mutely.

"Thank you." She says sweetly, her voice practiced and suddenly demure. His nod is terse and stiff.

She receives his back as he moves to the door. Pink lips are bitten as she tries to reign in her words. She doesn't bite hard enough.

"Will I see you again soon?" Internally, her mind is a whirlwind of cursing herself for such silly hopes, anxiety for his answer, and a deeply buried, harshly battered, but still existent glimmer of faith.

"I very much hope so," he says. "But I am in no mood to be caught by your passionate count. Again."

She laughs.

It's happier and lighter than she feels.

He kisses her cheek softly, ghosting over the fragile and pinkened skin.

With a quiet farewell, he's gone.

His absence settles in the room like a dull ache; she sits numbly in her unmade bed.

Her thoughts are interrupted by the shrieking of the telephone. She answers it with startled hands.

"Count Malcolm. Of course not, why would I be surprised by your call? On the contrary, I was waiting for it."

She laughs.

Again, it doesn't reflect her true emotions.

"Tonight?"

Her eyes scan her room. The disheveled mess could be cleaned before he even knocks on her hotel door.

"Perfect. I shall see you soon."

She waits to hear the line click before she falls backwards on the bed.

A groan escapes her tired mouth.

She's a fool.

* * *

He's no fool.

Paranoid hands buckle a silver belt, anger simmering ever so close to surface. He leaves with barely a goodbye.

He's unsatisfied, her count.

Not with her of course, she'd made sure of that, but unsatisfied with the answers she'd given him.

But of course she'd taken a shower late at night, that wasn't an uncommon occurrence. Of course she didn't smell of the perfume he'd given her, it was expensive and saved only for the best of occasions. Of course she'd left her clothes in a heap on the floor, she was exhausted from a long day. And of course she was exhausted, she'd been busy on stage with her troupe.

He's suspicious, but he decides to believe her.

He trusts her. She's Desiree. She's faithful.

He's no fool.

* * *

She's such a fool.

She grimaces in the mirror.

Little bruises mar her porcelain skin.

Her count was not a violent lover, but her already love-lavished neck had not been able to withstand two different sets of kisses in such a short increment of time.

But it's nothing a little bit of makeup can't fix.

She dabs it on with light fingers and muses on the attention she'd received.

Both times had reflected both men.

The first was soft and sentimental, so much like the charmer Fredrik was.

The second hot and heavy, as impulsive and impatient as the emotion-ruled count himself.

Both were mostly predictable.

She knew them, they were accountable.

One thing she hadn't accounted for was Fredrik's hunger. He was like a thirsting man, begging for water.

She should have expected it, the poor thing.

To wait so long for his wife, what unbearable torture.

To her, it was unfathomable.

Even when they'd been together and young, she had not been so eager to wait.

She's older now, much older, and still the wait, though for different reasons, might just destroy her.

But for him, for him she could wait forever.

That might be how long it takes.

But she can wait, she will.

The count will not wait for her.

Oh, she's _such_ a fool.

* * *

"And then she said I might get a band of flowers for my hair. It's a new summer fashion, you know. She said it would look pretty on me. But how silly of her. What do you think? Fredrik?"

His chin falls from his fist as he's pulled from his thoughts. He smiles at her faintly before looking back at the checker board.

"I'm sorry Anne. Please repeat the question?"

"Do you think I would look pretty, with flowers in my hair?" Her little hand reaches up to stroke a bit of her brown curls. He thinks of different curls, vibrant and downy tendrils the color of a dissipating sunset.

"Henrik says they are excessive, and therefore a sin... Silly Henrik," she finishes.

"Silly Henrik indeed. You would look pretty with flowers, but you look pretty with everything." He kisses her hand, she giggles coquettishly.

He smiles, but cannot help but compare her soft and young hands with other softened hands.

He cannot help but, when hearing Anne's giggle, remember a throaty chuckle.

Anne's eyes are bright and starry, but he finds himself longing to gaze into the eyes that hold a universe and its history.

Her chatter continues and he shakes the feeling off.

"Anyway, I think I shall get a flower band, if only to please you," she beams at him once, a dazzling picture of innocence and youth. "And to prove a point to Henrik. I can do something for myself without it being a sin."

"King me." Fredrik says, capturing one of her red pieces.

He remembers pink lips mouthing the innocent words, in a way that was anything but innocent.

His buttoned collar is suddenly very tight.

Very tight indeed.

"Just a forewarning, dear, I will probably have to work late again tomorrow night."

Anne's pout reminds him of her sulks as a child. He quickly shoves the thought far from his mind.

"Must you? I do so miss you during the day."

"Well I promise you shall have me for the night."

"Alright, I know your work is important."

His answering smile is tight, wracked with invisible guilt.

Disappointing both the lovely women in his life is not something he could say he enjoyed.

"Ha, I've won!" Anne squeals excitedly, running to Fredrik's side and peppering his cheeks with kisses.

"Dearest Fredrik, did you let me win?" She asks gleefully, he smiles.

"Heaven forbid it."

"Oh I must tell Henrik, he'll never believe it!"

Hesitantly, almost as an unwanted second thought, she kisses him on the mouth.

Though her lips are soft, the kiss is hard and quick, a little peck of flesh merely hitting flesh. Then she's skipping away, and Fredrik is left alone with a finished checker game and a dozen unfinished thoughts.

Mostly, he thinks of another pair of lips, warm and pliant under his own.

Such sweet, sweet relief.

With those lips, he can breathe again.

It's a shame he's content having his breath taken away.

Desiree.

Her name is fitting.

He desires her, always has, positive he always will.

But a taste of her is all he can afford.

She is a gamble, dangerous and alluring, untamable in her wit and charm.

She is hard to decipher and ever so easy to touch, whereas Anne is an open book where touch is not allowed.

Anne is safer.

There is comfort in a blooming flower, a security that a flame cannot guarantee.

But there is warmth in the fire.

He shouldn't touch either.

Better to keep his heart in Anne's inexperienced hands, for his hands encompass hers.

Desiree's hands are too capable, too observant to pass over his flaws.

The two women, so stark in contrast, they both hold his heart, whether he wants them to or not.

He does. He doesn't. He doesn't know.

He does know one thing, knows it with a surety that stands strong against his confused wants.

He's a fool.

He's a god-damned fool.


	2. Young Eyes Are Ideal For Watching

She sees things.

The way Fredrik's fingers inch their way towards Desiree's.

Ever so close, but still too far. Enough to still be deemed appropriate, enough for the radiating heat between the yearning hands to be felt.

Desiree pretends not to notice.

Fredrika does though.

She notices a lot.

The way her mother's earrings glimmer in the low light, the way Anne's giggles rise in pitch when she feels threatened.

Her giggle is mostly piercing.

She notices Charlotte's cheeks pinken as time passes and glasses empty.

"I grow weary of the unending chirp of crickets," The wine-emboldened woman says. Her eyes are bright, a certain calculating gleam lifting her chin and brow.

"Anne, dear, won't you sing for us? Your voice is lovely, and I haven't heard it in ages."

"How amusing, I would be delighted to. But of course, our most gracious hostess must go first. After you, Ms. Armfeldt. Age before beauty."

" _Anne_." Fredrik's voice a low hum of warning, she blushes.

Desiree merely laughs.

"Oh, but you must go first, otherwise I would bore you to tears. Or death." She grins at that, eyes teasing and determined, daggers hidden under velvet. "So, I insist. Youth before _experience_."

Anne's blush darkens, Fredrik develops a cough.

She stands, her little hands clenched in embarrassment and self-conscious nerves.

But still she sings, and she sings well.

Soprano suits her, high and trembling, a blend of wisp and vibrato.

She beams triumphantly in her success, sudden confidence staining her grin smug.

"Your turn, Ms. Armfeldt."

Fredrika smiles, for she knows something Anne does not.

When Desiree sings, the entire world stops to listen.

* * *

She begins softly, a sunrise slowly peaking over the horizon.

" _Darling, I'm so blue without you, I think about you the live long day."_

Her smile to Fredika is soft, the corner of her eyes crinkle in affection. Her eyes drift to the man on her left.

To describe him as awestruck would be putting it lightly.

" _You went away and my heart went with you, I speak your name in my every prayer_."

Anne shifts slightly, uncomfortable with the silent adoration soaking the atmosphere.

Desiree's lilting voice fills Fredrika's chest, warming her from the top of her head to the tip of her toes. She wrenches her gaze from the shining form of her mother, only for second, to gauge the reactions in the room.

If looks could kill, the innocent glass in front of Anne would have melted. Henrik's hand hovers behind her, itching to comfort, held back by propriety. The count listens fondly, Charlotte's eyes glisten.

Fredrik is still, wonder wide in his eyes.

Desiree catches his stare, her lips never falter, but unspoken words travel with the music.

A lyrical kiss to the soul.

" _If there is some other way to prove that I love you, I swear I don't know how_. _You'll never know if you don't know now_."

The song ends, the sun tucked back into the pocket of Desiree's dress, the world starts spinning again as she drifts away from divinity.

She is welcomed to earth by applause and congratulations.

Fredrik kisses her palm in praise, then turns to kiss Anne's cheek in consolation as the younger woman fumes. Henrik pats her shoulder tentatively, blushing as she leans into his touch.

Fredrik gushes over his wife, but his eyes are only for Desiree.

Her attention is held by the rest of her guests, so she doesn't see it.

Fredrika does.

The longing in both Charlotte and Henrik's lovelorn gaze, the suspicion raging behind the count's jealous eyes, the deep sigh hiding behind Desiree's contented smile.

Fredrika sees it all.


	3. A Day In Coherent Existence

Paradise could not be as blissful as this.

Though he could do without all the Shakespeare.

"Fredrik, you've missed your cue," Desiree says crossly, though her grin is anything but upset as she pokes him in the ribs.

His tan hand wraps around her arm, his lips make their way from her fingertips to her freckled elbow, worshipping the alabaster curve of her shoulder, nibbling the pulse point in her deliciously bent neck.

"I'm positive I've said all that needs to be said." He murmurs from the teased mess of her hair.

"You haven't said a word," she huffs.

His response is a kiss behind the ear.

"You're the one who convinced me to practice lines in bed, so you're the one who has to practice them with me," she reminds him.

"But must you do such a stuffy play?"

She gasps in outrage.

"It's _Shakespeare_ ," she says, scandalized. He merely shrugs, falling back onto the soft mattress, pulling the sheets with him.

Desiree pulls them closer to her chest, glaring down at him. He grins cheekily, completely unrepentant.

"He's boring," is his excuse.

"He's _romantic_."

"Couldn't he be romantic in a more interesting way? Nobody speaks like that anyway."

"That's _why_ it's romantic."

"Then I do not understand romance."

"Clearly," she mutters.

He hears the challenge. He accepts.

He flips them, smirking at Desiree's surprised little shriek. She looks so delicate and fragile as he hovers over her, but mischief gleams in her eyes; she glows with happiness and laughter and she's just so _bright_.

Invincible in her smile.

Fredrik leans down to kiss her mouth.

His lips meet her chin.

"You missed," she says innocently.

"You moved."

He tries again. He's successful.

She hums against his mouth, her lips curving against his in the imitation of a smile. Her mouth opens more as her grin widens, he grows more excited until-

"Ach! You bit me." He brings a hand to his bottom lip. No blood, but the soft flesh throbs.

She pulls him down closer to her, satisfied with her little act of vengeance.

" _That_ was for Shakespeare."

He groans, she laughs.

* * *

Fredrika drifts through the halls, contemplating the secrets of the smiling moon and the universe, when she hears a crash and curse from the kitchen. She hurries on silent feet.

She arrives to see Fredrik, her mother's esteemed and respected lawyer, his blue robe powdered with flour. She covers her giggle with a cough.

"Oh. Hello Fredrika. I...erm... I was just about to make your mother flat cakes. Shall I make you some as well?"

"That would be quite nice, but I believe mother prefers toast and jam," she says, inching closer to the mess.

Fredrik surveys the kitchen, a grimace twists his face, an apology painted all over his face.

"I'll just clean this up then."

"You can leave this for Amelie, she's the kitchen maid," she looks at the mixing bowl tightly clutched in Fredrik's rather shocked hands.

"You know we do have a cook." She comments, opening the bread box in the cupboard.

"Yes, but I supposed I should make it myself. Your mother doesn't believe I know romance. I'm determined to prove her wrong."

"I'm sure you will," Fredrika says.

"Fredrika darling, is that you? Will you come here a moment?" Desiree's musical voice calls in the open air.

"Of course, mother," she answers.

She makes her way to the open door, Fredrik stops her with a desperate look.

"Fredrika... Does your mother happen to have a favorite flower?"

She looks down the hall, servants wait outside the kitchen, listening to Fredrik's racket, hiding their snickers back behind amused hands.

"She likes white gardenias."

"Fredrika?" Desiree calls again, a hint of worry coloring her tone.

She hurries to leave, turning back to the hopelessly breakfast-drowned man.

"Good luck."

Then she's gone.

* * *

"There you are," Desiree says, clad only in her corset and underskirts as she greets her daughter. "I was beginning to fear that noise from the kitchen was from a terrible accident."

"Well it was a terrible accident, but only in flavor," Fredrika says with a giggle.

Desiree raises an eyebrow, the young girl doesn't elaborate.

"Well darling, I just have a slight favor to ask of you. Would you mind tying my laces? I can't seem to tie them right."

She nods, Desiree presents her back.

Flawless skin, barely even kissed by time. Luxurious curls tucked neatly into a perfect bun.

If Fredrika could grow into the exact replica of her mother, she would never want for anything else in life.

"Done," she says, the laces now a neat little bow and tucked under the bottom of the corset.

Desiree walks to her closet, scanning through her dresses, her fingers twitching when she doesn't find what she's wanting.

"What color do you suppose Fredrik fancies the most?" She muses.

"Deep blue, or evergreen." Fredrika guesses.

"And how did you come to this decision?" Desiree asks, leaning down to kiss her daughter's brow.

"It just fits," the girl explains.

"Well I'd never underestimate you, my little genius. Why don't we try evergreen today?"

Fredrika nods happily, watching in adoring fascination as Desiree picks a dress colored of forest.

It settles over her like a second skin, a reigning dignitary in pearls.

"You look beautiful." Fredrika sighs, she winks at her.

"Thank you, my sweet. Now, let's see if we can't beg a decent breakfast from our cook."

* * *

"Blast!" Fredrik exclaims, trying to shake the burning heat from his fingers.

"Oh dear, what have you done?" Desiree asks, rushing to his side and cradling his hand in hers.

"I've wounded my pride," he grumbles, gesturing to the charred pieces of what used to be bread.

She laughs, kissing his cheek for his trouble.

"You're sweet, you old fool."

He kisses her. She kisses him back, though she makes a face as she pulls away.

"You taste of flour," she comments. His grin is sheepish.

She leads him to the table, Fredrika trailing after them, she lightly holds his injured hand as they sit. Amelie discreetly sets down a plate of golden toast in front of them.

Fredrika and Desiree exchange looks, Fredrik does his best not to sulk.

"Oh," Desiree breathes, suddenly noticing the sole decoration on the wooden table. "Gardenias."

She turns to Fredrik, he grins.

"How did you know?"

"Your daughter is my saving grace this morning." The girl beams.

Desiree kisses them both on the cheek in thanks.

"They're beautiful."

"They dull compared to you, my dear." He says, his eyes trailing from the hem of her dress and up. He kisses her fingers, addicted to the taste of her.

"You look ravishing." He says sincerely, eyes dark in appreciation.

The clock chimes. Reluctantly, he tears his gaze from hers.

"To the utmost misfortune, I must go to work." He says.

"Will you be returning tonight?" Desiree asks, still unused to the fact that her habit is now his.

"As long as you're willing." He teases, kissing her in farewell.

"Don't fret, my love. I'll be home soon."

And then he disappears, but the dizzy and warm exhilaration inflating Desiree's chest does not.

Home.

He'd said a place with her was home.

She's not used to it.

But she could get used to it.

She'd love to.

After all, who doesn't love paradise?


	4. The Night Frowns

_Sorry loves, I forgot to let you know this isn't a single-plotted story. It's more a compilation of one_

 _shots and borrowed moments in imagined time. Sorry if there was confusion._

 _Enjoy._

* * *

She's getting tired of this.

Always packing.

Always unpacking.

A shifting existence of coming and going and never making a lasting imprint anywhere.

Life in ghost-hood.

Time is but another day far away from home.

Age is but a ghastly reminder of weary fading.

Her face, in the hotel mirror, has she always looked so... She daren't say the word.

She won't even think it.

 _Old_.

Well, she won't say it aloud.

Critical hands trace the lines creasing the snowy forehead, the little cracks around the pouted mouth, the-

She'll avoid the eyes today.

Her thoughts are halted by a knock on the door.

Thin fingers pinch pale cheeks as she stands, one last look in the mirror as she opens the eggshell door.

A smiling Fredrik greets her, dashing in his work suit, a single crimson rose resting in his hands.

"For the radiance in front of me." He says, kissing her cheek in greeting.

"It's beautiful, what did I do to deserve this?"

A peck on the lips is her thanks, he shrugs with easy charm.

"Beauty itself deserves appreciation."

"You flatter me."

The rose tickles her nose as she inhales, her smile hidden by the petals.

Fredrik tips it back to kiss her smile.

Once.

Once more.

Her hands wrap around his neck, her hair already tangled in his fingers.

Kisses multiply, she leads him in, the door closes.

* * *

She loves this part.

Hungry fingertips, roaming hands splayed over every inch of skin, murmured devotion while the body is verging the brink of satiated bliss.

She's never considered this sex.

Something this divine could only be associated with love.

At least with him.

"God, _Fredrik_."

A moan has never felt so delicious, perhaps it's sinful.

That's fitting for this sensation, so sweet it could only be described as torturous.

Fredrik's not alleviating the situation in the slightest bit. If anything, he's making things worse.

Not that she's complaining.

She's a hazy inferno of desire and ecstasy and-

" _Anne_."

She freezes. So does he.

"What?"

Horror pales Fredrik's face.

"I'm sorry."

"Get off me."

"Desiree, I am so sorry-"

" _Get off me_."

In blind panic, she practically shoves him aside all on her own.

The bed is suddenly scalding, she springs up as if burned.

As fast as she's up, she's across the room, flinging her dressing gown over her flushed body.

Her hands tremble as she tries to tie the silk cord.

Her fumbling makes the simple task impossible, she settles on wrapping her arms around herself and hugging tightly.

She turns to see Fredrik grabbing his clothes, apology screaming from his every pore.

"I am _so_ sorry, Desiree. I never meant to say-"

"But you did," she says abruptly.

"I wasn't even thinking about her," he says earnestly.

She scoffs.

Never before has she felt so brittle.

Never before has she felt so _used_.

"I'm sorry," he repeats.

She paces a tiny, imaginary line, her thoughts buzzing a mile-a-minute.

He watches anxiously, throwing his clothes on haphazardly, never breaking his stare from her expression, even when tying his shoes.

She stops pacing, he stills.

She stares at him hard, it softens infinitesimally after a moment, her hands remain clenched.

"I think it's best you leave, I can't talk to you yet." She says tightly, he nods.

"I understand."

"I am no one's stand in."

He nods again, deep regret sagging his chest.

"No, you most certainly are not. You, Desiree Armfeldt, are a star. And I am an idiot bastard who just ruined his only chance at redeeming glory."

She tries to knot her robe's string, a frustrated noise escapes her lips as she fails again.

Fredrik meekly holds his hand out in offering. She sighs as she walks closer, not looking at him, though he's all she can see.

Careful hands pull the silk together, gently looping the material into a bow.

He stands, she shrinks away as he gains height.

He tentatively reaches for her.

With a cautious hand, he tilts her face to gaze up at him.

"Please Desiree, I beg of you. Please don't hate me forever."

She blinks once.

Featherlight lips graze her forehead, then he's walking to the door.

"Fredrik," she says, he stops.

"Don't come back until you can see me without seeing her."

He nods, opens his mouth, lets it close.

He's said enough.

The door closes, the room clears.

It's numb and empty.

Desiree stands, shaking and alone in her dignity.

Then, she crumbles.

* * *

He's an ass.

Never has he loathed himself so much as now.

His home should not greet him as happily as it does.

Doesn't it know he's a terrible man?

"Fredrik, you're home!" An excited Anne bounces to him, he falls deeper into the black pit of guilt.

"Henrik's been retelling his lessons to me, but they're so dreadfully boring. But every time he'd recite something particularly gloomy, Petra would make the most clever of remarks! She's ever so funny, how I wish I had her wit. Oh, I've had your favorite dinner made! I- Fredrik, why do you look so glum? Bad day at work?"

He musters a smile, a wave of shame soon erases it.

Anne pats his hand sympathetically, then pulls him into the house.

She prattles on about sadness remedies, he lets himself sigh, the door closes.

* * *

Desiree is gone.

Her troupe is in another city, entertaining a different adoring town with different adoring men.

Not that Fredrik has any right to jealousy.

He is an abysmal cad.

An abysmal cad who cannot stop seeing the one he wounded in everything he does.

While writing a contract in the long hours at his office, Desiree is there.

While at home, listening to Anne's detailed recount of her day, Desiree is there.

While in solitude, Henrik's mournful and profound cello accompanying his thoughts, Desiree is there too.

Beautiful and glistening, she taunts him with her ethereal smile.

He wills the visions gone, he cannot take his pining for her.

She'd asked him to stay away, until he could separate his love.

He has done the first religiously, as he cannot do the second.

He loves Anne, without a doubt.

She's young and vivacious, sweet and safe, the light in his darkness.

She is youth, and he loves her for it.

But he also loves Desiree.

Too much of her is cherished within him to ever dissolve.

She is the hand that guides him, the one he leans on, his trusted equal.

She is infinite, and he will love her just as long.

He is a lucky, stupid fool.

Graced with love for two extraordinary women, who love him back, and he can't decide.

He can't separate, can't choose.

Perhaps Desiree, in her kind and gracious wisdom, has chosen for him by leaving.

He wants to thank her for it.

He wants to curse her for it.

He longs for her return and dreads it at the same time.

But she will return, and hopefully he will know what to do.

* * *

Another day, another town.

This time, she doesn't mind it.

It keeps her distracted.

It also keeps her count happy, no more strangers borrowing his robe.

He sends her roses often.

Pink ones in bouquets, little cards attached, telling her when he'll be visiting.

When he does visit, they go out. His arm stays wrapped around hers in public.

When she asks of Charlotte, he says she is well, then moves on.

His focus is on Desiree, and Desiree alone.

Though he brings up Fredrik more than she'd prefer.

Then she moves on.

Another day, another town, another performance, another bouquet.

She keeps herself busy, never sleeping until that's all she can do.

He's in her dreams.

He's in her everything.

He hasn't called once.

She'd be relieved if she wasn't miserable.

She's not sure how long she can stay in this limbo of missing him.

She'll come home soon, maybe then they'll talk.

Home.

She's never called him that before.

It settles in her mind like a long-missed puzzle piece.

If only home was something she could keep.

* * *

He's at the table when he hears Desiree is back.

His heart soars at the news, it sobers at Anne's sniff.

He waits an entire day before he is brave enough to see her.

The day is longer than all her days of absence combined.

He buys a ticket to a play he doesn't know, to his dismay she doesn't arrive till the second act.

The first act is excruciating.

For people who have been trained to speak well, the actors tend to drone on and on until-

He jerks awake as the audience clap, the beginning of act two has begun.

Desiree still hasn't entranced.

He stays awake this time, counting the scenes until she arrives.

The actor's lines and voices blur and he's really not paying attention, too busy anticipating and waiting until suddenly-

She's onstage.

She's exquisite.

Ravishing and electric, she dominates the stage and steals the hearts of everyone.

Fredrik never takes his eyes off her once.

When she notices him, and she does, she smiles.

It's small, but even so, a smile all the same.

Fredrik is sure such a smile births stars.

* * *

The play ends, the house closes, actors go back to their hotels.

Fredrik hovers by Desiree's door.

He takes a deep breath, then another.

A shaky knock is the fruits of his nervous labor.

He wonders how she'll greet him. Perhaps an icy stare, her arms folded and unforgiving; maybe tears, each drop acid on his guilt-ridden heart; perhaps she won't even open the door.

But she does, and she does something unexpected.

She smiles again, a small, tired galaxy bursting into existence.

"Hi."

"Hello Desiree."

She turns, the open door an invitation.

"Alcohol?" She offers.

"A whole bucket, if you please."

She hands him a bubbling glass.

"I've missed you," he says softly, she simply hums. "And I've thought about our last conversation many times, but still I can't choose."

She pauses, mid sip.

"Fredrik, darling, when did I ever ask you to?"

"You did tell me not to come back until-"

She laughs, beautiful and light and secretly insincere.

"I didn't mean I wasn't willing to share. I just meant..." she stops, searching for the elusive words that tickle her mind and cramp her tongue.

"I am an actor," she says carefully.

"When on the stage, I share it, and I wear another person's life. But when I am not onstage, I am merely Desiree, and I cannot offer anything or anyone else."

The corner of Fredrik's mouth lifts in understanding, relief blooming on his face. He says what he knows is truth.

"Desiree, you are not merely anything. Everything you offer is priceless and beyond worth."

"Then aren't you lucky I've offered it to you," she says with a wink. He kisses her open palm.

"I am, and I don't deserve it."

She laughs.

"Poor Fredrik, no need for such seriousness. I've already forgiven you."

"You have?" His hopeful expression lightens her heart, nearly chasing all her shadows away.

Some are stubborn and linger.

"Of course. We've been friends too long to hold grudges."

"Thank you, Desiree."

"Now hush and drink your Schnapps. I've missed plenty of your latest adventures, so I expect long, sordid details on what is happening in the Egerman household."

Hours pass, they talk long into the night.

Far above them, the moon smiles for the two fools who know so much and still too little.


	5. It Would Have Been Wonderful

If only she hadn't been so ravishingly beautiful.

A weekend in the country, and Miss "I'm going to seduce your husband and smile while doing so" Armfeldt dares to wear the same color as her.

What's worse, white only enhances her flaming curls.

She wishes they'd actually catch.

"Miss Anne, are you alright?" Petra asks, curiosity rather than concern lifting the woman's brow. She kneels down beside the couch to stare into those young, seemingly troubled eyes.

"Just thinking... Petra, how old do you suppose Miss Armfeldt is?"

The older woman's lips twist in a smirk. Anne takes no notice, mind racing with things she'd rather not say aloud.

"Well, I'd suppose mid 80's."

"I thought so..." She nods her head once, then catches the tease. "Petra!"

The blonde laughs, reaching down to fix Anne's hem.

"You never said _which_ Armfeldt."

"You knew what I meant."

She shrugs, eyes downcast as she plays with the fringe.

"What do you want me to say? It barely matters Miss Armfeldt's age; the woman's a marble goddess."

"I certainly didn't want you to say _that,"_ Anne mutters.

Petra pats her arm in faux comfort, Anne waves her away.

The servant leaves her to her troubled thoughts.

Desiree Armfeldt.

That devil woman.

So radiant.

So _experienced_.

What on earth can Anne offer that Desiree cannot?

She can't find an answer; the elusiveness would be amusing if it wasn't so torturous.

She adores Fredrik, he must know that. He means so much to her, the sweet man. There's not a thing she wouldn't do for him.

 _Well_...

The only thing she can't do, of course, that must be the only reason Fredrik wants her.

It has to be. Why else?

If not, then he must- no. She won't think it.

He can't.

He loves _her_ , she's the one wearing his ring.

He can't possibly love that far too willing woman.

She's an actress.

A desperately gorgeous actress.

Oh god.

Desiree Armfeldt, the wanton Aphrodite.

If only she would age.

That would be wonderful.

* * *

If only she didn't notice so much.

"You're in love with Anne, aren't you, Henrik?" Desiree asks, looping a delicate arm around his, leading the startled young man through the garden.

"What- no! No. That would be a mortal sin."

"Isn't every sin mortal?" Her head tilts, eyes twinkling in jest, his stare down at his boots.

"Which is why I try to sin as little as possible."

"Do you consider love a sin?" Her gaze sobers, sharpens. His jaw works, taking lead and walking faster.

"In this case, yes. A terrible one."

"You can't help who your heart wants." Her pace quickens as well, trying to keep up with his nervous gait.

"But I can help how I handle it."

She stops, halting him in his tracks. As she turns to look at him properly, her hand rises, cupping his cheek in the tenderest of understandings.

"Henrik, a heart can't be handled without being damaged."

"I'm not a child, I can control myself." A twitch in the corner of his eye, so little. She notices. Her smile is gentle and soft, Henrik suddenly feels warm.

"I know, that's what saddens me. I once said something similar, too long ago to remember. It didn't work quite the way I'd wanted."

"So what did you do?" His breath is baited.

She lightly pokes him, he inhales.

Her satisfied grin is tinted with something- less than regret, more than melancholy.

"I laughed."

Before he can ask for elaboration, she's vanished. Her perfume the only evidence of her presence.

What a perplexity.

He barely knows her, yet she's comforted him more in this moment than anyone else ever has.

He's not entirely sure why he feels comforted either.

She seems a lovely, though perhaps complicated woman.

A bit too perfect, however, her words too polished, too knowing.

And yet he feels relieved she knows.

But also drowning in anxiety.

How confusing, perhaps he shouldn't have said a thing.

If only she wasn't so understanding a listener, he could have kept it in.

That would have been wonderful.

* * *

If only she was allowed to like Miss Desiree Armfeldt.

She seems quite the lady. Exactly the lady Petra would like to be.

Well-known, well-wardrobed, and well-loved.

Well, at least well-loved by men.

Which is how Petra prefers it anyhow.

However, little Anne forbade her from speaking her name in anything but scorn.

It's quite hard to do, especially as the woman keeps bumping into her.

"Apologies, miss...?"

She ducks her head as the elegant woman picks up the fallen silverware.

"Petra, ma'am." She mutters, trying to recollect the age-old instructions in dealing with the upper class. She's never quite remembered the rules for eye contact.

"Apologies, Petra. I seem to be quite the klutz today."

She dares to flick her gaze upwards.

The woman is flawless.

Her face unscarred by time, a smile illuminates her eyes, stars swimming in hazel. Her hair immaculately coiffed, brilliant in contrast to her eggshell dress.

Oh that dress, cream poured over porcelain, molded to perfection, highlighting Desiree's many assets.

"You look lovely, ma'am." Petra blurts, cheeks flushing as she realizes just how long she'd been staring.

Desiree's smile widens at the compliment.

"Thank you, Petra."

With a wink, she's gone, floating down the hallway, an ephemeral vision of silk.

Petra lingers a moment before she's called to Anne's room.

Oh dear.

The young brunette is still miffed from Petra's earlier comment.

If only she could keep her mouth shut.

If only she didn't have to.

That would be wonderful.

* * *

If only she didn't seem so happy.

She positively beams, effervescent with some kind of inner glow.

Charlotte could fairly burst with envy.

Desiree doesn't deserve to have both her husband _and_ happiness.

The world is a cruel joke, and Charlotte's tired of laughing.

"Did you see the way Egerman lurks by her side? It's downright pathetic." Carl-Magnus practically snarls as he paces around the room, ever the tiger he claims to be.

"Did you see the way your paranoia colors you in the same light?"

"And to think, she might even _like_ the simpering fool."

"Yes, almost the exact thought crosses my mind every time I find you in Ms. Armfeldt's chambers."

"That man is weak, he bends to the whims of everyone around him. He doesn't know how to take charge."

"At least he isn't brash, like _some_ I know."

He paces a minute longer, deep breaths only agitating him further.

"I'm going to go shoot something. I'll feel better after I deal with this stress."

"And how shall I deal with this stress? Maybe through slitting my wrists to gape like the gills of a fish."

He kisses her forehead brusquely.

"I'll be back in an hour."

Then he's gone, leaving Charlotte in bitter silence.

All too soon, it's ended with a sharp knock.

"Mrs. Malcolm? Everyone's heading down to the lawn for a game of croquet. Miss Armfeldt was wondering if you'd join them."

Damn, that woman.

Tainting everything of Charlotte's, even her solitude.

If only she'd die.

No, that would only lessen Charlotte's torture.

She'll show that woman, even if it means seducing a thousand men, anything to finally one-up the one and only Desiree Armfeldt.

It will happen, and it will finally dim that blasted woman's fluorescence.

And that will be wonderful.


	6. Twice

Only once has Fredrika seen her mother cry, the day she was taken to her grandmother's chateau.

There was bit of blubbering on her end as well, but the sight of her mother's tear-stricken face felt a thousand times worse than any emotion she could survive.

She had vowed to herself to never again be the cause of her mother's suffering.

She kept that promise.

Others did not.

* * *

She's walking down the hallways to say goodnight to her mother when she sees Mr. Egerman, looking decidedly sheepish and upset as he hurries past her.

It makes her nervous.

Her steps hasten; she pauses outside her mother's gold-cornered door.

Someone is sniffling.

She knocks softly, cracking the door open enough to peek through.

"Mother, are you all right?"

A quick wipe under reddened eyes, a watery smile.

"Fredrika darling, of course. Did you need something?"

At her mother's gesture, she slowly creeps in.

The air doesn't feel quite right, the lights duller, the ambiance heavier.

One more look at her angel and she knows.

Someone has dimmed the light of her mother.

That someone could only be a snake, no soul could bleed dry the ocean that is Desiree Armfeldt.

"I only meant to wish you goodnight."

Another swipe at the eyes, it might as well be a stake to Fredrika's heart.

"Ah, well, goodnight sweetheart." Desiree's forced cheer resonates only as mournful.

The night is anything but good.

"Are you sure you're all right?"

This time, all she receives is a nod.

She hugs her mother, trying to convey all the love she has into one embrace.

Desiree is warm and tender, but her hands shake and her shoulders tremble.

"Has Mr. Egerman done something to you?" She asks as she pulls away, something akin to indignant fury rearing its head in her chest.

Desiree only laughs ruefully.

"It's what he hasn't done."

At Fredrika's curious stare, she shrugs, her gaze at her fixed hem.

"He doesn't want me."

The words are soft, final, dead.

"Of course he does, he loves you! I can see it!"

"And yet, it isn't enough."

A tear escapes, trailing down the blushed cheek, tickling the curved chin, staining the creamy satin dress.

Another tear.

Then another.

And then, it happens; the one thing Fredrika had hoped to never see again.

Desiree cries.


	7. Nice

Fredrik's a nice boy.

He is told so; and every time, he feels proud.

It's important, to be nice.

At least that's what his mother says, so he believes it.

* * *

Never be nice. Nice means nothing. And, so very often, nice is a lie.

Her mother says this with emphasis, eyes dark and serious as she brushes Desiree's curls into the softest of flames.

It's important to know the game and play it. Nice has nothing to do with it.

Desiree listens.

She believes it.

* * *

He's young and independent, bright and determined in his profession.

A promising lawyer to be sure, they say.

He agrees with them, but only behind closed doors, where he's allowed to fill his chest with the pride and opinions he keeps hidden in front of those approving eyes.

He's liked all around, a favorite of the office.

His hair is dark and his jaw strong, he smiles back at the flirtatious grins.

He's married though, to the sweet, shy daughter of his boss.

He quite likes her, she's nice.

It doesn't keep his eyes from straying.

* * *

She's the picture of youth and beauty, an exotic tiger-lily in a sea of blonde.

Her mother warns her not to waste her assets with that silly little acting troupe she adores.

She laughs, meets the men her mother deems " _respectable,_ " and kisses the delivery boy at the back door.

She's witty and charming, offered enough rings to cover every inch of her fingers… if she'd accepted them.

The days still feel new and she relishes the freedom. Marriage is a death sentence.

One night, her mother thrusts two options onto her.

Find a husband—or at least a lover—wealthy enough to support her, or deal with one found for her.

She makes a third option.

The next morning, she's gone.

The one and only Desiree Armfeldt.

Actress extraordinaire.

* * *

He's too young and too successful to feel so apathetic.

Only rising in office ranks, a loyal wife and young son at home.

It's too much, and not nearly enough.

After he wins the case most could not, he is awarded tickets to the theatre. Not something he prefers, but it made his wife happy.

She develops a cold, and he is left to his suffering alone.

The play is a comedy, he believes. Honestly, he doesn't find much to laugh at. Even from the balcony, it is apparent the actors are robotic and toneless, their faces tired and bleak.

He can't decide whether to leave or nap.

Then a spotlight shines on a lone figure, poised and dazzling on the boards. She is different than the others; she blazes, radiant, wooing those suddenly in rapt attention with her siren call.

Fredrik stays in his seat, listening; waiting to answer her back.

* * *

He's invited to a party after the performance; he hopes she will be there.

She is.

No longer fifty feet away and in the home of some esteemed aristocrat, it seems as though the spotlight follows her still.

She is the only one in the room.

Or at least, the only one that matters.

Fredrik's not one who waxes poetic, but to not compose sonnets of those wildfire curls, those sparkling eyes, the curve of those smiling lips, it would only be a crime.

Without doubt or trepidation, he gravitates toward her, confident in what he will say and how he will act.

Then, she smiles.

The entire world blooms in the middle of February.

All words melt somewhere in his throat.

"Ah, Fredrik, I was wondering when you'd come over to say hello," his coworker Anders says.

Fredrik nods in greeting, but his eyes are only for the vision smiling back at him.

"May I present, Miss Desiree Armfeldt."

"Hello, a pleasure to meet you." Her voice is soft and warm.

Fredrik melts again.

"Most sincerely, the pleasure's all mine."

"Well then you must learn to share." Her answer catches him by surprise, her eyes dark and teasing, he laughs.

"Only if you share a drink with me." He's surprised at his boldness, his wife shadowing his mind, but Desiree's pleased nod scatters it, until he is only an entranced man, walking arm-in-arm with divinity.

* * *

"May I ask a personal question?" He asks, once a bottle of Schnapps had loosened both their tongues and warmed their chests.

"Ask," she says with shrug. She's relaxed and grinning, sitting on a bench in the garden, privacy worth more than the heat indoors, her dress dangerously close to brushing Fredrik's thigh.

"Why acting?"

She laughs, sending a zip through his spine, he smiles at the sensation.

"And here I thought you were attempting to make me blush," she chortles.

"Perhaps later."

He freezes as the words fall out, cursing his forwardness, unable to stop staring at those inviting, crimson lips.

"Perhaps. But first, let me answer your question."

"About the acting?" His poor tongue stumbles, flustered by this enchanting woman.

She just grins.

"So…" at her silence, he asks the question again. "Why acting?"

"Why not?" He accepts her answer with a nod, then notices her eyes gleaming like starlight.

She's teasing him.

"You are being purposefully vague," he huffs.

"Indeed."

"Might I ask why?"

She grins again and he wants the moment immortalized.

"Maybe to keep you guessing," she flutters her eyelashes, he is bewitched. "Maybe to seem mysterious, or maybe to keep you interested, as the reason is fabulously boring."

"I highly doubt that."

Their gaze holds, he notices the flecks of gold spattering in chocolate eyes. The urge to beg overcomes him, though what to beg for, he's not sure. He's just compelled to do something.

He leans forward, and the night anticipates.

"I wanted to do everything," she says, breath hitched, words whispered like a secret.

It tickles his open lips, dances past his yearning tongue, settles in his mind like a permanent remembrance.

"And acting is the same?" He dares to whisper back.

"Same enough."

A press of the lips, as close to innocence as passion allows.

He now understands, her want for it all.

Because suddenly, she is everything, and he wants her.

* * *

Months pass, his wife's cold lingers, he attends the theatre alone.

Sometimes he stays for the performance, to see a dazzling jewel in all her brilliance.

Most days though, he waits, till the curtains have closed and the people have drifted, till the makeup has been wiped off and soft evening wear replaces the heavy costumes, till Desiree is his and his alone.

Not that they spend many nights to themselves. Desiree is not one to stay in.

Sometimes they go dancing, sometimes wild card games with her cast members, sometimes ritzy parties to celebrate Desiree's success with the bored and wealthy.

It would nearly be domestic if not for the significant glances, the whispered inside jokes, the desire behind every, "How lovely to see you again, Mr. Egerman."

The scorching kisses in empty bedrooms and coat closets reminds him she's a glorious star, burning brilliant and searing her entity onto his heart.

She's a whirlwind, and for once, he is utterly, irrevocably in love.

* * *

The theatre troupe stops all performances for a month, retreating to the sea.

He kisses his wife, kisses his son, and follows after her.

His excuse is an out-of-town case. It's a nice explanation, and his wife believes it.

"How unexpected of you," Desiree murmurs against his lips, surprised.

"Not unwelcome, I trust?" She shakes her head no and leans in to kiss him again.

She tastes like bliss, but he can't deny the guilt niggling in the back of his mind. His ailing wife is stuck indoors, while he enjoys the beautiful fruits of the summer.

He can't give it up though, can't let go of her.

* * *

Later, when they're wrapped up in sheets and dizzy from delicious height, his guilt hits with full abandon.

Guilt for betraying the woman at home, guilt for thinking of the woman at home while in the arms of the woman in the bed.

Desiree senses his unease, and guesses the reason still lying heavy on his lips.

She does the one thing he doesn't deserve, she comforts him.

He is not a nice man, he decides.

She murmurs against his lips that nice is an illusion.

He's inclined to agree with her, but the thought is sobering.

She kisses him again, tells him not to think much of it.

Then, she offers distraction.

* * *

Later—much, _much_ later, when the thought still nags at him, she offers an alternative.

Live genuinely, and when you cannot, laugh.

* * *

The moon is big and bright over a calm ocean, gentle waves hugging the shore, only to be called back to the deep. A fire snaps and crackles in the sand, driftwood burning to illuminate the night.

Fredrik's arm is warm around Desiree's shoulders, his cheeks pink from laughter and cheap wine.

She's nestled into him, and he can't quite understand why someone so awfully perfect is willing to sneak in the shadows with him.

All he knows is he's grateful.

* * *

It's their last night by the sea, they stroll the wide expanse of the deserted beach; the evening feels monumental.

She says nothing as she walks barefoot in the sand, Fredrik by her side, the only sound between them the swaying waves.

He reaches for her hand; it fits in his like a promise.

"I'm leaving soon," she says quietly, words hanging in the air like the mist off the shore.

"I assume you mean more than simply going back to the hotel," he says, winking at her in jest, but his chest is slowly concaving.

"I was asked to join a different troupe this winter, with a more well-known cast, and I'm tempted to accept."

"You should," he manages after a long moment. "It's a great opportunity."

"I would be traveling more."

Another long moment.

His mind is whirling, there's not enough air to satisfy his aching lungs.

"Tell me what you're thinking about this," he says, hoping she can talk his heart out of breaking.

"I'm thinking… I love you."

The world pauses.

It's the first time she's said it, and it's the first time those three little words have meant anything at all.

His thoughts fly, and every reason that keeps him tied to the ground is freed, until he's flying as well and she is the only thing in existence.

She is everything he wants, his savior from living in oblivion, and there's only one way he wants to respond.

"I love you too."

She kisses him, stops long enough to murmur those three extraordinary words once more, then kisses him again.

The world resumes.

* * *

The next day, in his office, he overhears hushed judgements of a coworker.

The man had been having an affair.

Now, tongues wag and heads shake and the man only leaves his office to go home.

Fredrik pretends to disapprove, and laughs at the scandal along with the rest of them.

Internally, he's quaking in his shoes.

* * *

Later, when his eternally demure wife says she missed him, all he can manage is a pained, half-smile.

At the sound of her ever present cough, his guilt consumes him.

* * *

He's waiting for Desiree at the end of the show, the house still packed and buzzing, when he suddenly runs into a coworker.

"Ah, hello Fredrik. Where's your lovely wife?"

Panic washes his vision, he fakes a smile.

"Still indisposed with a cold, I'm afraid."

He escapes after a few moments of small talk, but the heavy weight of shame carries with him.

Even Desiree and all her glorious charm can no longer completely distract him.

But he's distracted enough.

* * *

Time passes, blushing leaves slip from trees the way lies slip from mouths, and the world seems calm.

All is well.

Only it's not.

Fredrik's wife is only growing weaker, and his time with Desiree is quickly growing short.

Their shared nights are still nothing short of magical, but the theatre's offer of fame and fortune—and Fredrik's conscience—looms over them like a malevolent god.

* * *

He loves her, she knows he does. And she loves him just as fiercely, perhaps more.

But as much as she'd love to live in the ideal, reality is splayed across his face.

They can't survive like this.

They can't survive at all.

As much as she knows this is truth, she also knows Fredrik.

He'll deny it, even when everything in him agrees.

But she's played this game before, and she's an expert.

She knows what to do.

She'll play nice.

* * *

"We can't keep doing this." She finally says, even as her hand clutches his tighter.

She expects him to fake ignorance, or proclaim his affections for her, as he's done it before.

Instead, he sighs.

"I know."

A heartbeat of silence.

"What do we do?"

"Well, what do _you_ want?" She asks. He kisses her palm.

"I want you."

As much as it hurts, she chuckles.

"I _meant_ a solution," she says dryly.

"Are you going to accept the troupe's offer?"

She shrugs; he's both relieved and dismayed.

"Let's just run away from this all," he says. "I'm content to run forever, as long as I'm chasing after you."

"Poor Fredrik, ever the romantic," she teases, even as she kisses him. His lost puppy look is replaced with a smirk.

"At least it worked."

He'll distract her forever, and it'll work every time, but it won't save him from his guilt-ridden torment.

She takes pity on him.

"I need to make a decision by next Friday. Come to my last performance, and stay the _entire_ time," she gives him a significant look, referring to the many times he's walked out on a performance to simply wait in her dressing room. "If you're there, I'll run with you till the end of time. If you're not—"

"I'll be there," he interrupts her, kissing her soundly on the mouth.

She smiles—something she can't seem to help in his company—and squeezes her eyes shut.

For this moment, she can pretend to believe in his promise, believe the world will turn out right.

But she is her mother's daughter, and she knows the truth.

His promise is nice.

His promise is empty.

* * *

She sees him every night after that.

Friday comes all too soon.

She paces anxiously before it's time for the curtains rise.

As much as her mind knows the probable outcome, her heart yearns for the impossible.

The curtains rise.

He's not there.

Before her heart shatters, she remembers he's often late.

First act ends.

Then the second act ends.

Final bows.

Curtains close.

She has her answer.

* * *

He didn't go to the theatre.

It nearly killed him.

But he cannot.

His wife is ill, and his boy needs him.

He'd wanted to tell her in person, but seeing her perform would have broken his resolve and given her false hope.

This is better.

This is kinder.

This is excruciating.

* * *

Before she leaves, she receives his apology in the form of a note.

It's filled with sincere apologies and sentiments, but really it's all just empty words.

Too nice of a goodbye to mean a thing.

She wonders if she ever made an imprint on him.

She thinks not.

Either way, he has made an imprint on her.

Her hands cradle the imperceptible but ever growing bump that will grow to be so much more.

No matter what has happened, she doesn't regret it a bit.

They're finished, and while she's still stinging from the end, this new beginning is already a salve to her wounded heart.

She will heal, and then she will forget him.

She'll forget about the nice man and his beautiful promises, she'll forget about the love of her life.

She'll move on.

And that will be nice.

* * *

 _I just realized that Desiree and Fredrik probably weren't together when his wife was alive (she probably died giving birth to Henrik and then four or five years later he met Desiree), but I realized this too late. :3_

 _I apologize for that, and I apologize for this author's note. But who reads those anyway? ;)_


End file.
